


The Ghost at the Manor

by shauds



Series: Drunken Ghosts [4]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hangover, bats conspiring to keep Jason at the manor, but not too much Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-20 08:43:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16133726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shauds/pseuds/shauds
Summary: It's bad enough Jason woke up at the manor with very embarrassing, fuzzy round the edges memories of how it happened. Now he can't turn a corner without something getting in the way of him leaving.





	1. Lunchtime

Jason's dozed, slipping in and out of wakefulness a few times already. The headaches almost gone, but he's thirsty as fuck and the glass someone so graciously left him has been empty for at least half an hour. He hasn't thrown up again thank fuck, but the nausea rolling his guts is telling him that the possibility hasn't been entirely tossed out yet.

When Jason had been a kid, he hadn't understood it, and now, with what he was experiencing he understood it even less. How did people drink when they knew what would happen? Being drunk hadn't even felt that good; the little he remembered of it was going to haunt him for life. God, he thinks he was even crying.

The Tylenol that dimmed down his headache can't erase that memory, no amount of Tylenol ever will.

Stupid, stupid. He should have just stayed dead, if he ever finds the thing responsible for undoing that he's going to kick the ever-loving shit out of it.

The pillow he's been pressing his face into doesn't even smell like lavender anymore, it reeks of sweat and the gross sweet smell that's been clinging to him probably since the night before.

He wouldn't pass up the chance to kick the ever-loving crap out of something 'right now' if he gets the chance. As if he's just delivered a signal to some pan-dimensional being, hands wrap around his ankles and Jason is yanked out from his dark sanctuary. Figures he doesn't have the energy to curse them out, he can't even stop his shirt from riding up his chest in his scramble to protect his eyes from the light he'd been hiding from in the first time.

It takes a second for him to realize there's a shadow over him and Jason cautiously moves his arms from his eyes to see Bruce's huge figure silhouetted by the dull lighting from the window. His eyes aren't exactly happy with it, but Jason doesn't feel like he needs an exorcism either, so there's that.

Jason doesn't know what to say, doesn't know that there's anything left to say, and Bruce doesn't offer any conversation starters, and just looks down at him, expression hidden by the halo of light surrounding him. He remembers being carried from the batplane, carried up to bed, and he feels his face burn, and he can only guess at the color in his cheeks, fat chance he has of ever convincing Bruce of anything now that the man's seen him in that state.

"Fuck off." Jason demands, finally kicking his ankles loose of Bruce's hold, Bruce releases them without complaint, then he moves, and Jason's sun shield is gone. Jason swears again, and he's about to make for the bed again, when some cool fabrics are deposited on his chest. "Try to take me anywhere now and I'm jumping out the car." Breaking open his skull on the side of the street couldn't possibly be worse than being forced to move so much as a muscle now.

"You've been under there for hours Jason, it's been long enough." Bruce says, his voice betraying not a smidgen of the overflowing emotions Jason feels in his own chest. "Go take a shower, we'll talk after lunch."

Jason doesn't want to talk, in fact, he can't say that he ever wants to talk to anyone ever again in his life, but as much as he dreads moving his too heavy body, a shower is way too tempting to pass up. So he nods wordlessly, gathers up the bundle and forces himself to his feet, using the bed for support.

The last of Bruce he sees before he closes the bathroom door, the man is looking out the window, his arms folded loosely behind his back.

The shower helps, a lot, so does the gallons worth of water he drinks before he gets in. Once he doesn't smell like alcohol anymore, he can actually steer his mind to some kind of rational thinking.

He can't believe Dick brought him to the manor, or, well, let him be brought to the manor. If he'd considered this a possibility at all he would have just left the whole thing alone, not gone anywhere near New York. Now Bruce is probably waiting right outside that door for him, is going to be watching him for however long he's stuck here and then… Then what? Where are they going to put him?

With a sigh, he rests his head against the wall, letting the manor's endless supply of warm water fall over his shoulders. The vacant apartment he'd been 'borrowing' in New York hadn't had hot water; he might as well take advantage of this while he can.

There's no way he's going to get out of the manor without someone noticing and coming after him, he can't take on both Dick and Bruce at the same time, even if there was a weapon in sight, he's screwed and he can't even begin planning for what they do with him until they've done it.

His best bet is actually staying in the shower forever, then he'll never have to either see or speak to any of them ever again, it's a good plan, the best plan. It would be even better if there's even a fraction of a chance that they'll let him.

"Fuck it." He's been in long enough already. Jason gets out and dressed in the Hudson University shirt and loose sweats in under a minute, then slams open the bathroom door, ready to confront Bruce.

Only, Bruce isn't there. There's a breeze coming in through the window, making the curtains billow out, and aside from Jason, there's no one.

It would have been perfect, but Jason's looking for a fight now and he's going to find one. He knows Bruce wouldn't have left the manor with Jason still here, and if he's still in the manor, there's only one place Jason needs to look.

The manor's familiar, too familiar, it's worse than the anger he's been holding on to from that night, that the embarrassment clinging to him from showing up like he did 'last' night. The prickling of the old hall carpet against his bare feet, the indentation on that one floorboard where he'd dropped a bowling ball. His old bedroom is so close, just turn down there and open the third door.

It's not sudden, it builds on slow and he tried to break it down, replace it with the anger, the bits of green that refuse to cover over him the way they're supposed to. He tries, and for a while it works it can explain his heavy breathing, he barely notices the rekindled nausea or the piercing ache in his chest, but it doesn't work for very long. Before he's even reached the study all the green's been broken off and replaced by black curling at the ends of his vision.

"Heeeey, Jason." A hand slaps on his shoulder and his first instinct is to lash out, his foot coming an inch from slamming into his assailant's gut. "Whoa."

"Dick?" It takes a few blinks for Jason to really see the person in front him, but once he does, he can feel the anger come rushing back to him and he welcomes it. "Negotiations not over till I buy you a drink too!?" He basically spits the words at the older man, his hands balled into fists at his side so tightly he can feel his nails are near splitting his skin. "You couldn't leave it the fuck alone when I tried to leave, could you!?"

"When you tried to leave drunk off your ass, I wasn't gonna be the one who called Bruce and told him they found your body in a ditch Jason." Dick jabbed a finger in his direction. "And let's not pretend that one, drinking wasn't your idea, and two my equally drunk ass never got dragged back here too, and I 'didn't' get to spend the morning curled up under my bed."

Shit, he did, didn't he? Jason can't remember, but he knows he tried to make sure he consumed only as much as Dick, and Jason was bigger than him so… Jason was still thinking on it when Dick started steering him away from the study.

"Where's Bruce?" If Jason can't be pissed at Dick, he's damned well going to be doubly pissed at Bruce. He hadn't had the right to just drag Jason back to the manor, prison or the GCPD, sure, but not here. It's kidnapping's what it is, Jason doesn't remember telling Bruce he could bring him here, he knows he wouldn't have.

"Come, on, I feel just as shitty as you do right now, Alfred's got lunch ready, you wanna at least see him before you start picking fights, right?"

No, Jason doesn't want to pick fights before he see's Alfred; he doesn't want to see Alfred at all. The open window in his… the room he'd woken up in is seeming very inviting right now. He'll take whatever traps they put in place to keep him from using it, as long as they leave him in no state to go anywhere near the dining room. But then, there's no guarantee Alfred won't see him after that.

Jason doesn't know whether it would be worse to sit through a lunch or be stuck in bed with a broken limb for weeks, where Alfred can get easy access at him.

He hasn't had enough time to sort through the options by the time he and Dick reach the dining room; the decision's been made for him.

Bruce is sitting at the head of the table, right where he'd sat almost every breakfast and dinner when Jason had been a kid. The man looks up from a tablet when they're close enough for him to take note.

"You didn't get lost again did you?" Bruce asks, lifting the steaming mug at his elbow.

Jason's across the room, his finger almost touching Bruce's nose in a couple seconds. "First of all, fuuuuu…"

"'Master Jason'." The curse is cut short by the voice coming from just outside Jason's field of vision. His whole body freezes up and he's unable to turn so much as a degree, even when the measured steps get closer. "You'll remember such language is 'not' permitted in the manor, certainly not during meal times."

Jason swallows dryly, his dehydrated state really not helping with that, and shakes his head. There's the clinking of dishes and a chair being pulled out, maybe Dick sitting down, Jason's too busy watching an imaginary spot on the tablecloth – Alfred would never allow for there to be a real one.

"Good." Alfred's right beside him now. "Now if you'll be so kind, turn around and greet me correctly."

Jason does so numbly, drawing up from the bent over position he'd taken to yell at Bruce, but not quite rising to his full height. "Hi, Alfred." He brings up his eyes to meet the butlers.

Alfred gasps, a shuddery thing that comes from deep in his chest, and he lays his hands on Jason's shoulders and locks eyes with him. Jason feels exposed, vulnerable in ways he hasn't in what feels like forever. There's a reason he never made contact with Alfred, aside from the books, but right now, he can't bring himself to remember what that reason was. It's not because he thought it would hurt more than Bruce, even before 'that' he'd know nothing would ever hurt that much, but there was some…

There are arms wrapped around him now, and Jason's head drops almost mechanically, Alfred feels so small, it's at once just like when he's been a kid and nothing like that at all. The conflicting emotions it sparks inside him threatens to tear his chest apart in the short time before the only man pulls back. All his hair is completely grey now.

"I must say, your timing is impeccable." Alfred says, his hands sliding from Jason's shoulders down to his elbows. "This family's been in sore need of a miracle."

Jason can't take the look in his eyes, hopeful and sad and awed, so he turns away. "Have it on good authority 'ts more of a curse."

Alfred doesn't make a sound, but Jason hears something from behind him, he doesn't know whether it's from Dick or Bruce, it takes a quick glance to confirm Alfred's stunned expression before the old man wipes it away.

"There'll be no such talk at this table." Alfred demands, something close to fury peeking through his proper lack of expression. He doesn't let Jason respond, and Jason's glad for that, he has a pretty good idea of what he'll say, just pulls out a seat and beckons for Jason to sit beside Bruce.

There's fresh from the oven bread and salty slabs of cold cuts that will go a long way in dealing with Jason's lingering hangover. And juice, so much juice, and coffee, he's so fucking thirsty.

"We'll talk after lunch." Bruce says again, resting a hand on Jason's arm, not looking angry, or stony like Jason had been expecting. Really, Jason can't place the emotion he reads from Bruce, he's not sure he dares to.

Jason nods once and draws his glass closer while working on fashioning himself a sandwich with as many varieties of meant he can squeeze between the bread while still being able to fit it in his mouth. Dick's trying to finish off the turkey, Jason's got to be fast to make sure he gets at it first.


	2. Laundry

There are too many factors to consider.

The irregularities in Jason's blood not being the least of which.

Running back to the room when he'd heard Dick shout out, heart stopping when he caught no sight of Jason until a hand had snaked up to nab a pillow. The boy curled up under the bed like some skittish, light sensitive cat.

The question of 'where' the capital and other resources he would have needed to begin his campaign had come from. What had been given in return.

Trying to dislodge shaky hands from his cape once he'd carried Jason up to a guest room, Alfred for once not even huffing at the sight of uniforms in the Manor. Having to dislodge 'himself' from the boy's clinging hold once he was finally curled up in the bed.

Absolutely 'nothing' to show where Jason had been between Gotham and New York; especially worrying considering the dead marking both instances.

Dick practically dragging Jason into the dining room, the boys posture skittish and unsure. 'Br'ce 'm drunk, D'ck go' me drunk.' 'If it had been you he'd beaten to a bloody pulp.' His petulant, weary face when Bruce had pulled him out from under the bed. The brush of his fingers against Bruce's palm when he'd accepted taken the Tylenol. Leaning into the little comfort Bruce had been able to provide when he'd been sick. Jason trying to crawl out of the plane when it had finally landed, muttering seriously to himself.

There are so, so many factors to be considered, so why is Bruce only capable of focusing on one?

Jason got into the cave ahead of Bruce; he's standing by the memorial case, running a finger down the smooth glass tracing the outline of his old costume. In the reflection, a wry smile is curling his lips.

"Titans didn't give me a statue." Is how he chooses to start things, not pausing his inspection of the case, not turning to look at Bruce. There's nothing new in his posture to give away that he's in any way bothered by this fact.

Bruce isn't sure how to answer, he doesn't keep up in the affairs on the Titans, less now than he once had, and even back then he hadn't done it as well as he should have. He can't speak for them. There's no way of knowing what Jason would want to hear if he could.

"I shouldn't have." He says instead, taking note of the minuscule tightening in Jason's shoulders. "Every time something happens it breaks. No matter how fortified the glass is, it's always…" Bruce pauses, descending the last few steps. "Very dramatic, I think it's your fault."

Jason snorts, and his hand stops moving, still for a second before he starts scraping at the glass with one blunt fingernail. It looks like he's been biting them, that's not a habit Jason had had in his Robin years at least, not continuously. "No, that's all you." Jason's voice is so deep now. "You didn't take it down… after."

It's not a question, Bruce knows Jason's not expecting an explanation, he gives one anyway. "Can you say I failed you any less that night than I did in Ethiopia?" Bruce has moved close enough now that he can reach out and touch Jason, and he does so slowly, half-terrified his hand will pass though as though the boy's a ghost. "It didn't change anything, nothing at all."

His reach is too slow, and Jason ducks aside. "Doesn't change anything." He mutters to himself as he puts some distance between them, shaking his head with that same wry smile, he doesn't believe it. "What did I say last night?" He hides it well, but there's a light reddening at the tips of his ears that shows he's not too keen on knowing the details of his inebriated conversation.

"How much do you remember?" Bruce steps back, to give Jason some of the distance he seems to need.

The only answer he gets in response is a scowl and Jason moving to stand behind the case. Bruce can see his face now, but the glass distorts it slightly, the reflections of light on the case marking the death of his child hiding his view of the boy watching him from the other side.

"You called be old." Bruce tells him what he thinks Jason will be less mortified by, unable to completely hide his smile at the memory. He won't bring up the other rest, won't hold Jason to things he said while inebriated, except the one. "Implied I should be dead by now. I'm only in my mid-forties, Jason, it's not that old." Going on the unimpressed from Jason gives him, he's not very convincing. "And you said you'd apologize to Tim."

"Oh, so that's what you're all waiting for." The wry smile is back, Bruce wonders if Jason's having trouble holding it, or if it's just his real reaction to what's happened. "Gotta hold hands and says I'm sowwi 'fore I can get my ass shuttled off to prison. Well where is he?"

"No one's shuttling you…"

Jason's loud bark of laughter cuts Bruce's reply short. He's moved away from the case and is now making for the workbenches. "Oh that's rich." He drops onto a stool. "Where your sense of justice Bruce? Gonna let a murderer just walk on free? And multiple counts too?"

"How many prisons could hold you?" Bruce asks, instead of rising to the bait Jason's attempting to dangle in front of his face.

Jason's quiet, he tips the stool back, leaning against the workbench as he angles his head up to watch the squirming of the bats nesting far down in the darker parts of the cave. He's totally relaxed, reclining there in just sweats and one of Dick's old university shirt; it's not enough to shield him from the chill of the cave. It strikes at Bruce, how familiar it is, but he can't find a point of reference for where. It doesn't remind him of the child Jason had been, not really. Not of his other children either. Yet without the context, Bruce can't shake the conviction that this is something he's seen before, sometime, somewhere, even if that somewhere had been a dream.

He moves closer, again expecting the picture to dissolve. Jason takes this advance as impatience for his answer and tips the stool back to standing on all four of its legs with a light chink of metal against concrete. "I'm thinking." The boy says.

"There aren't any, it would be at best a temporary measure and it would put the other inmates at risk." Bruce has cleared most of the distance between them and now stands a scant meter from Jason. "Can you honestly believe I would think it could stop you?"

"No." Jason doesn't hesitate a second in answering, then he spins his chair round so it's facing the worktable, and again, not Bruce. "You spend a lotta time thinking 'bout how you're gonna 'stop' me, B-Man. I got some idea's 'f you wanna hear em."

Bruce can tell by Jason's tone, the way he's turning a blunted batarang over in his hands, that he most definitely does 'not' want to hear them. He nods anyway.

"Well, I wasn't killing anyone when I was 'dead' right." His smile has turned vicious, and his pressing his thumb against the batarang hard enough that even blunt, the weapon might cut him. Bruce wraps the dread pooling in his gut up tight, but that doesn't ease the weight of it. "Hell, I might even promise to stop, go my own way as a fucking monk if you took out the Joker like you shoulda."

"If you want the Joker dead so badly, why haven't you done it Jason?" The words slip out of Bruce's mouth before he can stop them, there's a part of him aghast at the very idea, screaming at him for giving Jason any incentive that could lead the boy to taking another life, adding to the weight of all the others. Jason's frozen, an aborted attempt at a response becoming a barely audible croak-like sound. Bruce almost asks for Jason to forget the question, instead, he presses on. "You have the resources; I was out of Gotham long enough, why haven't you attempted it again."

"Because it has to be you." Jason's voice is soft, but not weak, there's a hint of a growl to the words, their low volume camouflaging the anger boiling just beneath the surface. He's stopped turning the batarang. Now he's clutching it in hand as if it's the only thing keeping him from drifting off into the sea.

"Why?"

"Because it doesn't matter if I fucking do it." Jason looks up at Bruce, actually meets his eyes for the first time since, since, how long? His eyes are too green, too cold and his feet drop to the ground, the rest of his body following languidly, slow and a little jerky, like something's pulling him up by invisible strings."I'm not you, nobody cares if another nobody does it, it has to be you or nothing changes. I can keep doing this forever and there's always more scum to replace whatever falls away. All I can do is control it, 'you' have to stop it, 'cause you're the only one nothing can stop." He's right in front of Bruce now, his eyes burning, rage twisting his face into a scowl to monstrous it barely seems human. He jabs one finger at Bruce's chest. "It's one, just one life Bruce, for all the others, what's your fucking justification now?"

"It's enough, Jason." Bruce says, and Jason's expression is wiped away almost instantly, gone lax but for widened eyes that betray his confusion, and under that, a tightening that speaks of something like pain.

"The fuck's that supposed to mean?"

"I went after the Joker after you'd died." Bruce admits, his arms rising from his sides slowly. "I thought he was dead for a long time after that, Clark even thought…"

Jason blinks up at him now, wary, his fists closing, and this close, Bruce can see clearly that he still hasn't reached Bruce's height. "Well he…"

"It wasn't enough, I could have done it a thousand times over and it would have never been enough." Bruce carries on, and now, it's he who can't stand to look at the other, but he can't divert his eyes either. He clamps his hands on Jason's shoulders, and the boy flinches but this time doesn't break away. "You were still gone, that didn't change anything. All I could think about…" Bruce has to pause to gather his voice again. "When he put Selina in that chair, and I got my hands on him…"

Jason doesn't like where Bruce is going, he tries to jerk out of Bruce's hold and that's as much proof as he needs to be sure that Jason does remember. Whatever had brought Jason back, whatever horrors he's seen since haven't erased that day from his mind.

"You pulled me off him, and that's what you asked me." Bruce's hands move to hold Jason's head, making the boy meet his eyes again. All the confusion has drained away, his drawn brows loosened and his eyes half lidded. He tries to break away again, and only now, Bruce remembers the batarang in Jason's hands. He's not wearing armor, it would be easy for Jason to job him with the weapon and get away. "You remember, don't you?"

But Jason won't answer him, he's gives another shake and breaks free of Bruce. The only move he makes to put any distance between them is to stumble back the few steps to the workbench. He the batarang aside, and Bruce notices, with an ache, that crimson has beaded one edge before it clatters out of sight.

"This." Bruce continues, waving his hand at Jason. "Now it's enough. You're here, Jason, you're alive, and I would have never dreamed to ask for more. You would have stopped me from making a terrible mistake; all I'm trying to do is the same for you, I should have done it better before, on that night, but I failed you. Let me try again."

"I don't want anything from you." A shudder runs through Jason as he speaks, and his words warble. Covertly, he brushes his arm across his eyes, and his pale skin comes away glistening with liquid. "'F you're really not gonna try 'n lock me up, c'n I go now?"

Bruce feels something drop from his chest, but not in a way that makes him feel any lighter, he tries not to let it show, turns from Jason quickly so he won't read it on Bruce's expression. No point in making Jason think he was being guilted into something.

"Not dressed like that." Bruce moves over to the computer. "Your clothes are in the laundry, at least wait until they're dry."

"Fine." Jason says and Bruce pulls up a random file while he waits for Jason's heavy footfalls to vanish up the staircase. Once he's sure Jason's gone, Bruce collects the batarang Jason's been playing with, then pulls up the bloodwork files.

O

O

O

The manor is too familiar, too bright from its oversized windows and the memories crashing against Jason's mind like a tidal waved slamming against a city, breaking it apart, carrying bits of it into the ocean and leaving them there to down. Jason hates it. He can't save the pieces no matter how hard he tries, the wide halls of the manor leaving him with no room to swim, nothing to latch on to.

Jason rushes through the halls, keeping his head down and praying to whatever will hear him that he doesn't run into anyone. Everything leaves him too exposed here, with absolutely nothing in sight he can use to defend himself.

The only place he can think to make for is the room he'd woken in. The door slams opens before him with a mighty crash, it probably dents the plaster, he doesn't care. The blanket is still on the floor, lying where it had fallen when he'd dropped under it. Reaching under the bed, he collects the pillow and drops to sit mattress, holding it close.

He can pretend, if he tries hard enough, that the hangover is what has him feeling like his chest is going to explode.

They must have carried him all the way up here. Up the stairs, and through the halls, then laid him on the bed. His boots are standing neatly at the doors, there's no way he could have put them there himself. There's still an empty glass on the floor next to the bed. The window is open, the curtains swaying gently, almost hypnotically in the light breeze.

Jason pulls the pillow from his lap and buries his face in it so he doesn't have to see anything else, to take note of anything in the room. He can ignore how fast the fabric is soaked to the point he can barely breathe through it. It's not so easy to ignore the thoughts crashing against his mind.

And all through it, the voice of his younger self echoing about in the space left behind.

Isn't it enough?

**Author's Note:**

> I almost clicked the underage box because I forgot that it does 'not' refer to drinking.


End file.
